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^*I WAS THERE" 

WITH THE YANKS 

ON THE WESTERN FRONT 

1917-1919 



BY 
G. LEROY BALDRIDGE 

PVT. A. E. F. 



TOGETHER WITH VERSES 

BY 

HILMAR R. BAUKHAGE 

PVT. A. E. F. 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

TLbc IFiuicfterbocUer press 

1919 



Copyright, 1919 

BY 

C. LEROY BALDRIDGE 




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TO OUR MOTHERS 

Ours the Great Adventure, 
Yours the pain to bear, 

Ours the golden service stripes, 
Yours the marks of care. 

If all the Great Adventure 
The old Earth ever knew, 

Was ours and in this little book 
'T would still belong to you! 




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THE LINE 

Form a line ! 

Get in line ! 
From the time that I enlisted 
And since Jerry armististed 
I've been standing, kidding, cussing, 
I've been waiting, fuming, fussing, 

In a line. 

I have stood in line in mud and slime and sleet. 
With the dirty water oozing from my feet, 

I have soaked and slid and slipped. 

While my tacky slicker dripped. 
And I wondered what they'd hand me out to eat. 

Get in line ! 
For supplies and for inspections. 
With the dust in four directions. 
For a chance to scrub the dirt off, 
In the winter with my shirt off, 

In a Hne. 

I have sweated in an August training camp. 
That would make a prohibition town look damp. 
Underneath my dinky cap 

While the sun burned off my map 

And I waited for some gold-fish (and a cramp !) 

Get in line ! 
For rice, pay-day, pills, and ration, 
For corned-willy, army fashion. 
In Hoboken, in the trenches, 
In a station with the Frenchies, 
In a line. 

I've been standing, freezing, sweating. 
Pushing, shoving, wheezing, fretting, 
And I won't be soon forgetting 
Though I don't say I'm regretting 

That I stood there, with my buddies. 
In a line. 




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"PREPARE FOR ACTION" 

I ran into Johnny Redlegs 
A-sitting on his bus, 
And I asked him why the devil 
He dropped half his shells on us. 
He just smiles and puffs his corn-cob, 
As peaceful as a Persian, 
And, "Buddy," says he, "you can't blame me. 
You gotta blame dispersion." 

I says to Johnny Redlegs, 
"If I didn't have nine lives 
Your barrage would have got me 
With those lousy seventy-fives." 
He grins and puffs his corn-cob. 
And then he winks, reflective. 
And, "Buddy," says he, "you can't blame me 
If you pass your damn objective." 

I says to Johnny Redlegs 
(Just kidding him, you know), 
"The trouble with your popgun is 
She pops too gol-darned slow." 
Then Redlegs drops his corn-cob 
And spits on both his han's. 
And, "Buddy," says he, "you can kid with me 
And the whole damned Field Artilleree, 
But there'll be a dud where you used to be 
If you kid my swasont-cans ! " 



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RELIEF 

z-z-z-z-z-z-Z-Z-Z-Z-e-e-e-e-E-E b Boom ! 

There's another! 
God, this pack is heavy. 
Glad I pinched the extra willy, 
Guess I'll need it. 
And the sweater, too, 
out there. 

-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-Z-Z-Z-Z-E-E-E-EEEEEE- - b Boom ! 

There's another! 

Jesse ! that was a close one. 

Wonder if good Christ ! Where's Charlie ? 

Got him clean. God curse those Jerries! 
I'll get even, — p'raps — 
out there. 

z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-Z-Z-Z-E-E-E-E-e-e b Boom ! 

There's another! 

Over! 

Well, if one has my name on it 

Then the guv'ment pays ten thousand. 

What's the use? I couldn't spend it. 

Leastways not — 

out there. 

z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-Z-Z-Z-Z-e-e-e-e-e-E-E-E-E b Boom ! 

There's another. 
Where'd I put that plug of Climax ? 
Oh, I s'pose somebody swiped it. 
Gee, I never thought that Charlie. . . 
Glad I ain't out on the wire. 
This damn trench is dark — ouch ! Damn it. 

Wait a minute Hell, I'm coming, 

I can't run in this equipment. 
What the hell's the rush to get ^ 
out there? 




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FATIGUE 

You can see 'em in the movies, 

With the sunlight on their guns, 

You can read in all the papers 

Of the charge that licked the Huns, 

You can read of "khaki heroes" 

And of "gleaming bayonet," 

But there's one thing that the writers 

And the artist all forget: 

That's me! 

On K. P. 
In my suit of denim blue 
I am thinking — not of you — 
But the places where I'd like the top to be ! 

On the posters in the windows. 
In the monthly magazine. 
Are the bo^'s in leather leggins 
Such as Pershing's never seen; 
Oh, they love to paint 'em pretty. 
All dressed up and fit to kiss, — 
Ain't it funny there's a picture 
That they always seem to miss ? 

Bless me soul, 

Loading coal! 
In my little shimmy-shirt, 
Eyes and mouth full up with dirt — 
(In the next war I'll be living at the Pole." 



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POILU 

When we left the transport 
Back in St. Xazaire, 
Second thing you asked us, — 
"Quand finit la guerre?" 
Didn't know your lingo 
You weren't hard to get, 
Peace was what }ou wanted - 
And a cigarette. 

Then up in the trenches 
It was just the same, 
"When's it going to finish?" 
Didn't seem quite game. 
Then we saw you strafing, 
Saw we had you wrong, 
Wondered how you stood it 
Four years long. 

Drank your sour pinard. 
Shared what smokes we had, 
Got to know you better. 
Found you weren't so bad, 
Four years in the trenches! 
(One's enough, I'll say) 
How the hell'd you do it 
On five sous a dav ? 




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THAT QUIET SECTOR 

Four hours off — two hours on — 
And not a thing to do but think, 
And watch the mud and twisted wire 
And never let your peepers blink. 

Two hours on — four hours off — 
The dug-out's slimy as the trench ; 
It stinks of leather, men, and smoke, — 
You wake up dopey from the stench. 

Four hours off — two hours on — 
Back on the same old trick again, 
The same old noth'n' to do at all 
From yesterday till God knows when. 
On post or not it's just the same, 
The waiting is what gets your goat 
And makes you want to chuck the game 
Or risk a trench-knife in your throat. 

Two hours on — four hours off — 
I s'pose our job is not so hard, — 
I s'pose sometime we're going to quit — 



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SALVAGE 

I'll be stepping wide in these russet shoes! 
Leather putts beside, honest I can't lose! 
Guess the guy that had 'em left 'em in a hurry ! 
What the hell, he's S. O. L. 
I should worry. 

"That's my second razor !" 
"Then gimme the blades." 
"Whatcha got there, Buddy?" 
"Pair of tailor-mades !" 

I'll be walking on air! Yes. . . they was the top's! 
He won't need 'em out there — if a big one drops. 

"Going to keep that sweater?" 
"No, look at the dirt." 
"Put that on you. Buddy, 
"You'll have to read your shirt !" 

If I get that leave I can use 'em to dance. 
Well, I should grieve, — he had his chance. 

"Nothing doing! Beat it! 
"Saw that luger first !" 
"Ten francs says I want it." 
"Done. I'll cure this thirst." 

Brand-new russet shoes, I'll be stepping high ! 
Someone's got to lose, glad I ain't the guy. 
If I'm going to use 'em, guess I'll have to hurry, 
The next H. E. may be meant for me — 
I should worry ! 




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EQUIPMENT C 

The Loot is getting wabbly, 
With his dinky little pack, — 
He can hear the sergeant cussing 
But he doesn't dare look back. 

But we ain't saying nothing 
Since we got the order "route," 
Too dog-dead for even wond'ring 
If we'll ever hear "fall out." 

My damn rifle and my helmet 
Keep on getting in the way. 
And my brains are numb and dopey 
Try'n' to cuss and try'n' to pray. 

My throat's as dry as sawdust 
And my right arm's gone to sleep. 
And the pack-strap on my shoulder 
Cuts a slit two inches deep. 

I just lift one foot and shove it 
And it hits most any place, 
Then I lift and shove the other 
T'keep from falling on my face. 

If the guide should change the cadence 
I'll be damned if I could stop ; 
If you pushed me with a feather — 
Well, I'd just curl up and drop. 

And I know damn well there's stragglers 
That'll ride up on a truck — 
Guess if you ain't born a quitter. 
You're just simply outa luck. 

I suppose we'll keep on going — 
Huh? The Skipper's faced about? 
Halt ! . . . I'm dreaming. . . in the daisies. . 
You don't need. . . to say. . . "fall out!" 




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"MADELON" 

It seemed years since I had seen one, — 
Years of hiking, sweat and blood, 
Didn't think there was a clean one 
In these miles of men and mud. 

Well, I stood there, laughing, drinking, 
Kidding her in bon fransay 
But the things that I was thinking 
Were a thousand miles away. 

Sewed my stripe on like a mother, 
Gee ! She was a pretty kid. . . . 
But I left her like a brother, — 
Shake her hand was all I did. 

Then I says: "Vous, all right, cherry—' 
And my throat stuck, and it hurt. . . 
And I showed her what I carry 
In the pocket of my shirt. 




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NOVEMBER ELEVENTH 

We stood up and we didn't say a word, 
It felt just like when you have dropped your pack 
After a hike, and straightened out your back 
And seem just twice as light as any bird. 

We stood up straight and, God! but it was good! 
When you have crouched like that for months, to stand 
Straight up and look right out toward No-Man's-Land 
And feel the way you never thought you could. 

We saw the trenches on the other side 
And Jerry, too, not making any fuss, 
But prob'ly stupid-happy, just like us. 
Nobody shot and no one tried to hide. 

If you had listened then I guess you'd heard 
A sort of sigh from everybody there, 
But all we did was stand and stare and stare. 
Just stare and stand and never say a word. 



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